


Every Time

by wildlings



Category: NCT (Band), SM Rookies
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildlings/pseuds/wildlings
Summary: Hansol is lonely and weary and stuck in Paris. The city of lights is dull and drab, until he meets a stranger on the Metro who begins to remind him what life is all about.





	1. The First Time

_The First Time_

 

It was Autumn in Paris, the leaves had turned, contrasting grey skies with bright crimson and pumpkin coloured orange leaves scattering with the wind. Hansol wasn’t used to it, how cold it felt. He’d layered a jacket over a hoodie with a scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. The metro car was a reprieve from the cold. He’d walked after classes to the Arc De Triomphe, hoping to take memorable photos and scenic landscapes for his mum, back home. It’d been barely a 20-minute walk, but he hadn’t thought of how quickly his fingers numbed in the cold.

 

He was busy texting his mum the best of the seventy plus photos he’d taken before running for the metro, his elbow hooked onto the standing rail of the car, hardly noticing the dimming and flickering of the lights.

 

Until the car stopped, quite suddenly, in the tunnel.

 

Hansol had a _mild_ case of claustrophobia. Nothing serious enough that he took medicines, but tunnels… he _hated_ tunnels. And they’d just stopped in the underground. He looked up from his phone to take in his surroundings, regretting his decision immediately. The car was full, each seat taken, people at each standing rail, checking phones, reading books, then glancing around just as he was. He took a deep breath, and then another.

 

 _God._ God _. It was just like_ Train to Busan, he thought to himself. Any minute now they’d face a horrendous attack and they were just… stuck until it happened, like sitting ducks.

 

There was a snort. The lights were still dim, so people were folding their papers, shifting, checking their watches. Hansol was still taking breath after breath, coaching himself, and he looked at his phone only get the “message failed to send” notification – he’d lost service.

 

He stopped breathing.

 

Fuck. This **is** _Train to Busan._ I’m going to _die._

 

Hansol hadn’t realized he’d shrunk down squatting, balancing on the balls of his feet, arms circling the rail, until he heard a disgusted, “My God, is he going to faint?” And then, “I hope he doesn’t throw up.” He understood their French and English, but couldn’t remember how to reassure them that, no, he wouldn’t throw up. He wasn’t too sure about the fainting though.

 

The snide comments didn’t help with his nerves.

 

He prayed to God or the Universe or whoever would listen that he wouldn’t have a panic attack in the subway… in public. He was embarrassed enough to shrink into himself a bit more.  
  
“Take a breath.”

 

He did.

 

“You’re fine. This isn’t _Train to Busan_. There’s maintenance today, there’s a sign on the door.” It sounded like the voice was pointing it out. The voice was speaking calmly, in _Korean_. He took another breath, looking up.

 

It was one of the passengers that had been seated, reading a book before the lights dimmed. He was tall, though he wasn’t sure if that was only because he was looking _up_ at him. Hansol unfurled, slightly.

 

There was another snide comment, and the stranger glared behind Hansol. “He’s not going to vomit, why don’t you calm down yourself?” He shot back to whoever had been making comments about Hansol. He finally stood again, calming at the familiarity of his own language. Familiarity of the stranger. “Thank you.” He replied in English.

 

Then he furrowed his brows. How’d he know he was freaking out, thinking of _Train to Busan_? That he was Korean?

 

The stranger was indeed tall, his face pale, too pale, even for the Autumn season. He was also layered in a jacket and hoodie, but rather than looking as cold and underprepared as Hansol, he his dress suited him. His hair was shiny, well-kept brown tendrils framing his face.

 

“Thank you. How… did you know I was Korean?”

 

The stranger smiled. “You were talking about _Train to Busan_.” Well that wasn’t enough to say he was Korean. “…In Korean. I don’t think you noticed, but you were talking to yourself out loud.”

 

Ah. His cheeks warmed. He was such an embarrassment. The stranger smiled yet again. “It’s fine. It was funny. They would have laughed too, if they understood.” He waved, gesturing to the shuffling crowd in the car.

 

The metro began to move again, Hansol sighed in relief, sagging slightly on the rail.

 

“It was a great film, by the way. They’re doing showings here, actually, at the cinema near the Pantheon.” On the other side of the Seine, but not far away. Hansol took a minute to draw up the map of the city in his head. He spent most of his time within a few miles radius of school and his apartment, rarely crossing the river, but it was beside the Pantheon… he needed to go there anyway. He’d have to cross to see the Eiffel Tower, too, eventually.

 

The metro came to a stop again, but this time at a functioning station.

 

“If you want to watch it again, it’s showing until next month!” The stranger offered, and then gave a modest bow of his head, a semi-formal goodbye greeting. Hansol blinked, “Thank you!” And then, as the stranger was exiting the car, “Wait. Wait! Who are you?” The beeping signalling the doors closing sounded, and Hansol started.

 

“Johnny. I’m Johnny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itried.jpg (thank you so much for reading)  
> more chapters coming soon!


	2. The Twelfth Time

_The Twelfth Time_

 

Under the shadows of the famous Cathedral, there was a bookstore. Hidden, like a crack in the concrete more so than a hole in the wall. Hansol found it homey. He loved to spend his free time there, when his course load allowed him breaks.

 

There weren’t many windows, save the storefront’s newspaper lined panels, and it gave the shop an ancient feel. He wondered how long it had existed, some stacks possibly serving as columns to support the building’s structure.

 

In the rows and rows of bookshelves, Hansol sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning slightly into the tome he’d plucked on his way down the aisles. Victor Hugo. If that wasn’t quintessentially Paris, he wasn’t sure what was. Although he personally loved to reread Saint-Exupery at least once a month. It tethered him.

 

The bookstore was also like a library. They bought and sold books, but also shared them for a token or traded volume for volume. Some books were tattered, spines well-worn or even missing. The spine of _Les Miserables_ was so illegible, the previous owner had Sharpied the title for identification purposes.

 

Everything was so _comfortable_. It was, among few others, the safest and most homey place he’d found in Paris.

 

There were tables among the aisles, few and far apart, but occasionally taken by other University students or teenagers seeking a haven.

 

Lack of windows caused him often to lose time in there, as though he’d entered an alternate timeline.

 

It had been hours, he unwound himself from the books, cringing at the discomfort in his neck and back for sitting so long in a curled in position. He’d broken out of his reverie when a figure to his left shifted in his peripheral. He paid them no mind, his eyes closed as he rolled his neck from side to side, working out whatever kinks had formed.

 

Finally, Hansol stood, placing the book back onto the shelf and leaning down once more to grab the strap of his backpack, ready to go find some food.

 

The figure hummed in satisfaction, finally shelving the last of the books he’d had piled in his arms. Hansol glanced over once he’d started walking away.

 

 _Milk and Honey_ by Rupi Kaur stuck out further on the shelf than the other books, almost begging to be picked up and thumbed through. Hansol did just that, thumbing through the pages, until he reached a poem titled _Balance_.

 

It made him smile.

 

Beside the image of the scales was a bright green post-it note that read:

 

_I read this book and I loved this book._

_If you also loved this book, message me_

_so we can discuss how we both love this book!_

_You can reach me at_  
__  
+33 1 42 34 82 34

_\--Johnny S._

He closed the book, rushing towards the front to try and catch him before he left. Through the newspapers and piles of books, Hansol noticed it was raining at the same time that Johnny slipped through the doorway.

 

Hansol deliberated for a minute whether he should just go after Johnny, but he’d spent so long in the shop that the skies had turned dark with the rain. He wouldn’t be able to discern which direction Johnny had even gone in.

 

He pouted, making his way to the front counter. He bought the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. The Seventeenth Time

The Seventeenth Time

 

Hansol’s internal map of the city didn’t take minutes to load, anymore. He was thoroughly convinced he knew it by heart, though he still hadn’t ventured to half that laid on the opposite bank of the Seine just yet. He was working his way into it.

 

He crossed Pont Neuf, often, to get to his bookstore, so he figured that was progress enough.

 

Rupi Kaur in hand, this time, but still on his comfortable side of the Seine, right before the Pont Neuf, there was a small Patisserie on cobblestone streets that suited his taste just right.

 

Under the shadow of the Notre-Dame Cathedral, there were numerous café’s, restaurants, even common chains. None of character or much taste. Their boasting point was merely their proximity to the looming gothic structure.

 

He’d foolishly tried them all. It had taken weeks, but he loved the bookstore, and the closest eateries to the bookstore were the restaurants and café’s that stood alongside the Notre-Dame. It probably wouldn’t have taken so long, he guessed, if he hadn’t been alone. It was a process – not just the need to order food, but to walk into a place, to speak to the waiter, to force himself not to stumble over the words – all in another language.

 

French was his fourth. He was Korean, born and raised in Busan. He’d learned the Seoul dialect in his first year of secondary school. English had come second-nature, considering the vast amount of American media he consumed from his childhood to his present. He formally studied both English and Japanese in University. When he’d decided to move to Paris, he learned French.

 

He was utter self-conscious of his accent, yes, but when he was alone it was also that stigma of being _alone_ and eating out. He tripped over the words in French although he’d practiced them a thousand times and knew precisely what to say.

 

But this Patisserie, with their golden tree branches brandishing the archway, constant smell of fresh coffee, and warm pastries, this patisserie was his favourite.

 

Rupi Kaur’s words captivated him for the afternoon. There was an exam in the morning, but he didn’t know exactly how to study for it or what he needed to know, so he’d put it out of his thoughts

 

Johnny’s number was still on the post it. He hadn’t read up to _Balance_ , yet, and he wanted to love the book like Johnny loved the book, so if he messaged Johnny – _if_ – he would be honest about his feelings.

 

It wouldn’t be hard.

 

The bell tinged as someone pushed through the door of the small shop. Hansol turned the page. The illustrations that accompanied the poems Hansol loved. As though they gave it deeper meaning. He folded the top corner of the page, yet another in the handful he’d wanted to bookmark specifically, and continued onward.

 

At ‘ _the idea of shrinking is hereditary’_ Hansol felt like a wind rushed through his ribcage, scraping as it went. He put the book down, for a moment, its words pressed to the table top, and glanced around.

 

Johnny placed a coffee cup and a fruit tart to the table.

 

“It’s in pairings. The beginning might break you, but the end might give you hope.”

 

Hansol blinked. _I feel like you’re always saving me_.

 

“I can’t decide if you’re extremely memorable, or if I just see you often.”

 

He was dressed in a pink hoodie and blue jeans, comfortable clothes, and he’d bought coffee and something else, kept in the shop’s pastel takeaway bag.

 

“I see you all the time.” Hansol finally regained his voice. “I saw you two days ago at the Seine.”

 

Johnny cocked his head, he didn’t take a seat, and his posture seemed antsy. “I’m always on the Seine.” He smiled, then gestured to the cup. “Enjoy the coffee and sweet along with the book.” He glanced behind himself. “I wish I could stay.” Johnny said quietly, as though he was speaking to himself.

 

“I’ll find you again, probably.”

 

Johnny’s gaze found his again.

 

“I hope you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll pick up again soon!  
> Thank you so much for reading!!


	4. The Twenty-Eighth Time

_The Twenty-Eighth Time_

 

Hansol met Johnny several times, that month. He’d crossed Pont Neuf and had finally entered the Notre-Dame, with Johnny in tow. He didn’t realize he could be such a _tourist_ until he recounted to Johnny all the places he had been and all the places he hadn’t.

 

Johnny needed a few minutes when he admitted he hadn’t seen the Eiffel Tower yet.

 

“You’ve lived in Paris for five months…” Hansol nodded, “but you still haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower?” Hansol again nodded. Johnny held up a finger and blinked, taking a minute.

 

“We have to go. We have to go to the Eiffel Tower.”

 

Hansol blinked, “That’s on the opposite bank.” Johnny nodded without looking up, he’d taken out his phone and was rapidly scrolling through his phone with his index finger.

 

“I’d rather watch _Train to Busan_ again,” Hansol grinned at Johnny, who wasn’t paying him any mind. “I still haven’t been to the French cinema yet.”

 

“We can do that. The Eiffel Tower isn’t going anywhere, we only have until the end of the month to watch _Train to Busan_ in a fancy Parisian cinema. Let’s go.”

 

“Like, now?” Hansol didn’t think he had really been listening.

 

Johnny held up his screen for Hansol, shaking it in his grip. “Next showing in half an hour. Finish your pizza and let’s do this!”

 

Hansol didn’t even bother finishing up the crust and started clearing the table. Johnny’d barely left a bite of his own crust, having been dipping it in several different sauces while he waited for Hansol to catch up on his second slice. They met beside the Seine again, but Johnny had suggested they eat pizza for lunch. He said it reminded him of home, but in the most basic sense. Johnny claimed European pizza was a sad rendition and the “ _only real pizza is in Chicago, the perfect deep dish… or even New York, if you like that thin crust stuff”_ to which Hansol laughed as he did, in fact, love that thin crust stuff.

 

He didn’t want to make a fuss about not crossing the river. It hadn’t been something he did on purpose, but he’d just become accustomed to a certain space. Once things became habit for him, it was hard to break, even if it was something as silly as staying on one side of Paris. There was no rhyme or reason, it was just what he’d gotten used to doing.

 

They walked to the Metro and made their way to the theatre. Johnny explained to Hansol more about the differences between living in Chicago and then living in Seoul, and Hansol told him about growing up in Busan and then moving to Seoul.

 

Everything was so _easy_ with Johnny.

 

After they’d arrived near to the Pantheon, Hansol wondered if Johnny had kept him talking as a distraction from realizing they’d crossed. He hadn’t explicitly shared his weird habit with Johnny, but considering the extensive list of places he hadn’t visited, it might have been possible for Johnny to discern, if he delved into the details of Hansol’s words.

 

But Hansol figured he was just overthinking again.

 

Johnny paid for the tickets, much to Hansol’s resistance. “I was the one who suggested this trip, therefore I am the one to pay for this trip.” Hansol protested with a pout. “You can buy coffee afterwards, if this hurts you so deeply.”

 

He nodded, allowing it only then.

 

Hansol had only spent a month with Johnny, but he was the definition of ease and calm. Johnny was light. He gave excited details to Hansol of places to go and things that made him feel happy and alive and Hansol soaked it all in. He was listless, in Paris, though he hadn’t realized.

 

Johnny was like his guide.

 

Sometimes more like an excited puppy. At times, Johnny would light up and grin and drag Hansol by the arm around the city “ _Have you tried this Patisserie? They have the best bread.”_ Or they’d be enjoying ice cream on an unseasonably warm day and Johnny would get up and tell Hansol they needed to have an adventure that day.

 

They made it in time for the movie, just as the lights were dimming and Hansol clutched the giant popcorn as Johnny navigated the theatre to find them the ultimate seats. High up and centred, but not so far back that the edges of the screen were visible enough to be a distraction.

 

The movie was nearly finished when Hansol glimpsed Johnny out of the corner of his eye, tense, eyes glazed over slightly, but unfocused, like whatever was happening on the screen wasn’t what he was focused on. By the time it ended, he could tell something was up.

 

When the lights came on, Johnny slowly walked out of the theatre, phone in hand, and Hansol trailed behind. “Give me a sec, please, I missed a call.”

 

Hansol nodded and made his way outside, to the night-time air. It was so different, at night, but he also felt like this area was busier than he was used to. He swallowed his discomfort and took a deep breath. He was fine. He lived in Paris for nearly six months alone, he could navigate the city well enough. He spoke enough French and English to communicate with at least eighty percent of the population… he was fine. He managed to soothe himself with his thoughts.

 

Johnny reappeared, “I’m sorry Hansol, I forgot I had to meet someone tonight.” Hansol blinked. “I have to run, I’m sorry I can’t take you back home—“

 

Hansol shook his head, cutting Johnny off, “It’s fine. I know my way around, I’ve lived here for months, you don’t have to feel bad! Go on, you’re probably already late.” He motioned for Johnny to hurry along, a smile on his face.

 

Johnny gave him one more look of pleading, sweat rolling down his temple, before he turned and walked off in the opposite direction of Hansol’s home.

 

Hansol merely watched until Johnny was no longer visible, wondering what that feeling in his chest was that he felt every time he saw Johnny walking away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, I truly adore you.  
> Thank you so much.


	5. The Thirty-Third Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny and Hansol watch french films in Hansol's flat.

Johnny loved films and music. Hansol loved being indoors. In his flat, in the bookshop, in a café. Sometimes they compromised, sometimes Johnny won out and dragged Hansol around to new places. With Johnny, nothing was too strenuous. But Hansol was also lucky, because Johnny never pushed him too far. Hansol never had to speak the words that he was too worried about going far from his home, or that he didn’t feel comfortable when the weather was a certain way… Johnny understood those things about him without him having to stress them.

 

It was probably what made Hansol realize he’d slowly become so used to Johnny – they met nearly every week now, they’d become so close in just a few months – Hansol felt like the world was a little brighter because of him, and that things were complete with him around.

 

They were at Hansol’s place, again, feet tangled over the coffee table that supported a mess of magazines and books that Johnny had been reading and CD’s he’d asked Hansol to listen to in his free time. They were watching a French film, but the plot was lost on Hansol. He recognized the actress, but after the third film they’d watched that afternoon he’d started daydreaming through the scenes while Johnny’s focus never seemed to waver.

 

Hansol shifted, resting his head on Johnny’s shoulder and reaching between them for the chips. In his concentration, Johnny hadn’t removed his own hand from the bag, and Hansol brushed his fingers aside, biting back the urge to intertwine his own fingers in Johnny’s. The thought jarred him, in how instantaneously it came. Instead, he withdrew his hand and the few chips he’d managed to pick up as he retreated into his head.

 

It was, probably, an hour or so later when Hansol opened his eyes, bleary, to the tv screen moving through a series of wallpapers. Whatever had been playing had long finished and, left alone, the tv had entered a resting state as well. When he lifted his head, he realized they’d _both_ fallen asleep. Johnny was resting against the armrest, an arm clutched around the throw pillow and the other… around Hansol’s waist. His own was lodged behind Johnny’s back, making him incapable of movement.

 

He relaxed, unbothered, resting his head again in the crook of Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny made no sound, but when Hansol tried to glance up it looked as though Johnny was smiling.

 

“You know, you’re even cuter when you’re asleep.” He grumbled, closing his eyes.

 

By the time he woke up again – it couldn’t have been more than an hour later, but his eyes needed more time to adjust – it was getting darker out. This time, when he moved, Johnny muttered and shifted as well.

 

“You called me cute.”

 

Johnny’s eyes weren’t open, but he mumbled with a smile. Hansol dislodged his arm and sat up. “You’re so _adorable_.” Hansol felt warmth spreading across his cheeks.

 

“Yeah, well, so are you.” He grumbled again. He felt Johnny’s arm around his waist, tugging him closer. Hansol leaned over Johnny, committing the image of Johnny’s chest rising and falling to his memory. His eyes roamed, up, over the only-so-slightly covered chasm of his clavicle, the deep bow of his lip, the soft curve of his nose, and the soft, dark eyelashes, and his full brows. His breath caught.

 

The corner of Johnny’s mouth raised in a lazy grin.

 

“I’m hardly worth the time.” Hansol glanced up, wondering if Johnny had finally opened his eyes to catch Hansol devouring the sight of his lips. His words only made Hansol frown. “You’re worth all the time in the world.” He insisted.

 

Johnny finally cracked his eyelids open, and he and Hansol stared at each other. Hansol leaning halfway over Johnny’s body, Johnny braced against the curve of the couch.

 

He hadn’t realized he’d moved forward until Johnny exhaled, and his heart stopped. Hansol stroked a finger across Johnny’s cheek, leaning into the kiss, when Johnny turned his head just enough to break them apart.

 

“I’m being honest. I’m a waste of your time.” He met Hansol’s eyes, when he was finally able to raise his gaze. Hansol’s breathing was shallow and quick. Johnny looked at him in despair. “There are so many incredible things in this world, Hansol, and you deserve so much more than me.” He could hardly hear him over the sound of the blood rushing in his ear.

 

Johnny squeezed his hand, “Promise you’ll find all the bigger and better things.” It took Hansol a minute, to slow down, breathe, and focus on the words Johnny was saying.

“I promise.”

 

The warmth returned to Johnny’s face, but filled Hansol with nerves and butterflies and mounting anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the wait. Just a few more chapters left.


End file.
